hard-fought, steeple slopes, jealously shield
the clois, the haggard, the stripes, even
the stones; are wary of interlopers,
knotweed, rhododendron, giant cabbages
and other invasive sorts; have shared,
down centuries, the harsh infertility of
this fallow isle, pulling together its loose,
measly topsoil and enriching it with
nitrogen-bearing root nodes. On hot
Summer days, it wafts the Achill air with
coconut scent, rends the Achill air with
pops of exploding seed pods; blue-green
branchlets hug the Achill earth, snuggle it
in a canopy of rigid, furrowed thorns.
It is, as ever, a lop-sided alliance, this bargain
between man and nature – one taking, one giving:
Thatch for the widow’s cot; beaten to pulp ‘tween
mallet and stone, a bran for sheep or stock;
coppiced and pollarded and scythed, each acre
a winters feed for six hungry horses, ’twas said;
the young shoots, forage once for piebalds along
the long acre; its leaves add colour and flavour
to Irish whiskey, make wine and tea, as well.
Its besoms once Saula houses swept; foundations
for bog roads in Shraheens, too; a chimney brush
with sugawns pulled, down and up, up and down;
sprinkled sprigs kept mouse and vole at bay
from bobbed-up shoots, and seeds, soaked, rampant
fleas repelled; ash of whin, when mixed with lard
made soap that soon did dirt discard; furze blossom dye
did Easter eggs adorn and young shoots greened ribbed sock
and pretty petticoat; gorse wood was grand for kitchen tools
and garden gnomes – non-toxic and would not rot;
precious bearts from tramcock butts dried on its August
bush; scarce pollen for bees it yields through Spring; dense
cover for Warbler, Stonechat and Whinchat, too, except
the Wren which it betrays so easily on each Saint
Stephens Day; in the Achill of my youth, protection
for Sandybanks rabbits, before we went genteel
and swapped burrows for golf holes; dinner for the
Double-striped Pug moth, but refuge for diner Robin, too –
Nature’s sword, as ever, double-edged; in olden days,
a purgative; a cure for scarlet fever, jaundice, all ailments
of the spleen and nasty kidney stones; release from
horse’s worms, besides, (only half the dose for man, one would
suppose); shelter belts on sodded walls, stock-proof but, sadly,
not sheep-proof (is anything?); a barrier to mystical forces –
scatter petals at window or door to keep the fairies out; a sprig
kept under thatch or over rafter would surely bring you luck; place
a plant in the dung heap during May to multiply the crop; a garland
around the churn would ward off the evil eye and cattle chased
through aiteann would never, ever die. And as you stagger
homeward, a spray behind your lapel would halt the certain stumble.
A twig in the feeding stall will foil sterility,
A sprig in the brides bouquet will ensure fertility,
(no mention of the groom or his ability!); and
kissing is always out, when blossoms are not about!
Cameras, smart phones all around, Dooniver, Dookinella,
Achill Sound, Ballinasally, Cloisríd, Keel, Cloughmore,
Bunacurry, Cashel, Keem, The Shore; Kildownet, Pollagh,
Dooagh, Dugort, Croghan, Minaun, old Slievemore,
take landscape photos, catch all the action,
snap scarlet fuchsia and yellow aiteann,
sharp, cutting and lacerating,
like its Island hosts,
thorny, prickly, quick to flare,
